by Julie Miller
He wasn’t quite sure how to explain his fascination with the older woman. Maybe it was the fact that she’d been distressed over her run-in with David Brown—and for an instant afterward, they’d connected. He’d waited in that hallway to scope out David. But he’d stayed because Rachel had needed him. She’d needed somebody. At least, he’d thought she needed a friend. And he’d been more than ready to volunteer his services.
“Josh?” A.J. snapped him out of his illicit imaginings and back to the present. “Nah. I told Ma I was at a training seminar in Jefferson City.”
“With some sweet young thing.”
“Right.”
The two men shared the hearty laughter of acquaintances becoming friends.
But A. J. Rodriguez wasn’t the best in the business for nothing. For a moment, the seasoned undercover operative with all those years of experience crept into his expression. “Be careful, Josh. This isn’t the kind of work where you can afford to lose your focus. Wherever your head was a few moments ago, don’t go there again. That’s the kind of distraction that can blow your cover and get you killed.”
An instant later, the street-savvy college kid was back in place. A.J. grinned. “Take care, man.” They touched fists in what passed for a handshake. “Call me at that number to set up a meeting tomorrow. Let me know what you find out tonight.”
“Will do.”
After A.J. left, Josh stirred his coffee again, trying not to compare its color to the rich sheen of Rachel Livesay’s hair. Avoid the distraction of the good doctor? Right. That should be easy enough to do.
All he had to do was imagine the unknown father of her child. The man who had the right to take her in his arms and comfort her.
RACHEL PULLED her bright red, rolled-brim hat down over her ears and stepped out into the cold. Though her body temperature had increased in the past few weeks of her pregnancy, she and her wool coat were still no match for the cold, whipping wind that stirred up the snow from the ground and pitched the tiny, icy flakes into her face.
After her water-aerobics workout and a dinner of salad and breadsticks from a local Italian restaurant, she headed for her brownstone condo just off the Plaza in southwest Kansas City.
But instead of turning in for a night of reading in front of the TV, she’d backed out of her doorway and retraced her steps to her car. She just couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. The sensation of unseen eyes learning which condo belonged to her. The unsettling quiet that, instead of offering respite and reassurance, taunted her with the realization that she’d be alone for the night. Completely and utterly alone.
Despite the protests of her weary body, she’d locked the door and drove back to campus. At least there she’d find plenty of people around—studying at the library, attending night classes and departmental meetings, going to play rehearsals and music practices.
But when the night janitor had checked her office to see why the light was still on, she’d joked about losing track of the time. She’d spent the evening grading makeup papers and editing her mid-term exam. But eventually, her baby’s needs spoke louder than her own misgivings. She needed to get home. Maybe splurge on cookies with her nightly glass of milk. She needed to sleep.
As busy as the campus had been at seven o’clock, by midnight the place was nearly deserted. The bitter weather had chased all but the heartiest of souls inside.
Rachel’s teeth chattered and she hugged her arms across the top of her belly, trying to retain her body heat. Snow and cold and damp air were nothing new to a Kansas City winter. They were nothing new to her. But by the time she reached the stand of streetlights bordering the faculty parking lot, she was puffing out quick, tiny clouds of air that warned her that the baby’s round head was pushing against her diaphragm and impeding her ability to breathe deeply.
The baby was also sitting on her bladder. She’d used the facilities before leaving her office, but now she felt like she had to go again! Feeling cold, feeling damp, feeling miserable, Rachel hurried her pace and cut straight across the empty parking lot toward her car.
But she pulled up short and stuttered to a stop when she saw her left rear tire. The blowing snow had drifted around the wheels, but there was no mistaking the distinct lean from the hood to the trunk.
She had a flat tire.
Rachel cradled her belly and jogged the last twenty feet. The tire was flat. Definitely flat.
At midnight. In winter. When she was bone-tired and had to pee.
“Damn.” She tipped her head to the curtain of snow swirling in the circle of light from the streetlamp overhead. “Double damn.”
Then she looked down and rubbed her tummy, apologizing for the frustrated outburst. “You didn’t hear that.”
She looked around for options, pushed back her glove and checked the time, breathed in and checked the temperature. She could phone a tow truck and pay the extra charges for a nighttime call. She’d have to walk back to the building and wait or else she’d freeze. She could call campus security to wait with her until she could leave.
Or she could handle the situation herself.
Strengthening herself with a mental resolve, she unlocked the car and tossed her bag inside. “We’re going to be on our own for a long time, sweetie,” she explained to her unborn daughter. “We might as well practice fending for ourselves now.”
But by the time she’d dug out the jack and the spare, she was breathing hard. Quick, shallow breaths in and out through her mouth. The baby kicked to protest the strenuous exercise, catching Rachel beneath a rib, forcing her to stop and clutch her side until the pain subsided.
But then she resumed her work, jacking up the car as quickly and efficiently as the numbing tips of her fingers through her gloves would allow.
She’d unloaded the jack and had the hubcap off and a couple of lug nuts loosened, before she realized she had company. Three figures, watching her from the shadows like snow wraiths. And then she understood what was really going on. An icy chill shimmied down her spine.
This wasn’t about bad luck. This was about payback.
She locked the tire iron in her fist before pushing herself to her feet and turning to face David Brown and his two thick-necked jock friends.
“Dr. Livesay.” David’s smile was anything but genuine. “Having some trouble with your car?”
Rachel was oddly strengthened by the knowledge that David felt compelled to have backup when trying to intimidate her.
“I suppose if I check the stem, I’ll find a tiny pebble wedged beneath the cap.” She’d heard of the trick to slowly release air from a tire.
“I wouldn’ know about that.” David’s cheeks were flushed pink, as if he’d just come from inside some nice warm vehicle or building. Or worse. She picked up on the slight slur in his voice. He’d been drinking.
Intoxicated meant unpredictable. Rachel was already at a disadvantage. She needed to keep her head and think more clearly than any of these boys could.
“Then, you stopped to help me change the tire?”
“Looks like you’re doin’ jus’ fine on your own.”
Rachel noticed one of the bigger youths moving toward the rear of her car. She jabbed the air with her tire iron. “Stay put. I want all three of you where I can see you.”
David gestured to his friends and himself. His lips pouted and he took on a wounded expression. “We’re not in your class anymore, Doctor. You can’t give us orders.”
She nodded to the two muscle men, Lance Arnold and Shelton Parrish. “I didn’t kick them out of class. You’re the one who stole that paper. I found an exact duplicate on the Internet.”
David’s chatty drunkenness vanished. In its place she caught a glimpse of temper flashing in his eyes, followed by cold, heartless rationality. He pointed his finger at her and advanced. “Maybe you shouldn’t be such a tough bitch.” Rachel backed up against the car, succumbing to a moment of self-preserving panic. “It’s no wonder the guy who knocked you up didn’t stic
k around.”
“Get away from me!” When David was within arm’s reach, Rachel jammed the tire iron in the middle of his solar plexus.
David clutched his arms across his stomach, doubled over and coughed. Rachel poked him in the chest, nudging him farther away.
“You stay away from me,” she threatened in as succinct and even a voice as she could manage. “I’m calling the police right now.”
“With what?” David’s cough turned into a laugh as he straightened.
Rachel traced his line of sight and glanced over her shoulder, beyond the roof of her car. Distracted by the vile menace of David’s advance, she hadn’t noticed Lance circle around the front of her car. Her book bag—and the cell phone she kept inside—dangled from one big, meaty fist.
Fear—more chilling than the night around her—attacked her from within, robbing Rachel of her false sense of confidence.
The diversion was the opportunity David needed. He snatched the tire iron from her grasp.
Instinctively, Rachel circled her arms around her belly, shielding the most vital part of her from any harm.
David pointed the tire iron right beneath her chin, using it as a lethal extension of his accusatory finger. “I don’t want back in your lousy class,” he said, laying down his version of the law in unmistakable terms. “I just need you to clear my record so I can stay in school.”
“That’s out of my hands, David.”
“Do it.” Cold, cold iron tapped the end of her chin and she jerked away from its frozen touch. “Do it, or you might have to face worse than a flat tire.”
A frisson of anger worked its way through the chill that rooted her in place. “How dare you threaten me. You’re the one who broke the rules. You’re the one who has to pay the consequences.”
“It’s one…stupid…paper!”
His voice flashed with anger augmented by the liquor that still coursed within him.
Oh God. Rachel shivered against the raised fender of the car, shrinking into herself. What had she done? Why had she argued? Why hadn’t she stayed home?
This morning’s cyptic note burned an incriminating hole in her pocket. Because of her stupid paranoia, she hadn’t seen the real danger headed her way. Now she’d put not just herself but her baby in danger.
“David. Please…” For her baby’s sake, she wasn’t above pleading. “Lance? Shelton…?”
“Is there a problem, Doc?”
Rachel’s heart jumped to her throat and collided with her fear. The dark, low-pitched voice had startled David, as well. It was a voice that brooked no argument, a voice that showed no fear.
It was a voice she would never forget or be able to repay.
Her knight in shining armor stepped from the shadows into the illumination from the streetlamp. Josh Tanner. With his black jacket and jeans, he’d been invisible in the shadows. She knew he was six-three or-four, and his broad shoulders required the extra space of an empty seat on either side of him in her lecture hall. But as he stepped into the light, with his feet braced for a fight, his hands hanging in loose fists at his sides, and his blue eyes dark with some unnamed emotion, he looked bigger and tougher than she’d ever seen him in class.
She hugged her stomach, keeping her baby close in her arms, half afraid to trust in the rescue he promised.
“Lose the tire iron, David,” Josh warned.
David’s gaze darted from Lance to Shelton to Josh. The look he spared Rachel was a mix of hatred and smug triumph. “There’s three of us, Tanner.” David’s challenge dangled in the cold, damp air. “And this isn’t any of your damn business.”
“I’ve made it my business,” Josh answered, unmoved by David’s bravado. “Now, are you going to leave with your face intact, or with a bloody nose? The choice is yours.”
Chapter Three
“Well, David, what’s it gonna be?”
Josh patted his jacket, wishing his gun were strapped to his shoulder instead of locked with his badge in the glove compartment of his truck. He forced his hand back to his side, clenching and relaxing his grip, testing his readiness for an old-fashioned fist-fight.
“Are you as tough as you talk?” David challenged.
If Josh hadn’t made a lonely trek across campus through the frigid midnight air to clear his head and temper after that frustratingly unrevealing party he’d attended, he never would have happened onto the tense situation unraveling before him in the faculty parking lot.
No one would have.
Three taunting drunks cornering a defenseless woman.
Josh breathed in a long, silent, steadying breath. He was about to even up the odds.
“I’m tough enough.”
And smarter, too. He hoped.
He balanced himself over the balls of his feet, making a quick peripheral sweep of the scene, noting the slippery layer of new snow on the asphalt, measuring the distance between him and each of his opponents. The flushed skin and bleary eyes of the linebacker duo and their self-proclaimed leader indicated a dangerous level of alcohol in their bloodstreams, making them slow-witted yet unpredictable threats.
The back room of the off-campus party had been a seller’s market for pot, not meth. Though the marijuana was as illegal as the underage drinkers holding their beers in the main room, he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. His hands were tied with the burden of maintaining his cover. So he’d flirted with a few pretty girls and sipped his own beer.
Unlike Josh, though, Brown and his buddies had been nursing something considerably more potent.
He took special note of the only visible weapon—the tire iron—and how David kept it pointed directly at Rachel Livesay’s pale face.
Despite the liquor, David managed to articulate his underlining meaning with crystal clarity. “We were just having a little chat about a flat tire. Weren’t we, Dr. Livesay?”
The tire iron tapped Rachel’s chin. Her breath stuttered through her teeth.
Screw his good-ole-boy persona.
Nobody, but nobody, threatened a woman on his beat. A pregnant woman, no less. Not on his watch. Undercover or not, it just straight wasn’t going to happen.
Though Rachel’s eyes had swelled with panic, she was smart enough to keep her focus pinned on her immediate threat. “Don’t do this, David,” she pleaded in an urgent yet even voice.
Debating the reason in her words, David’s gaze slipped over to Josh, then to his two muscle-bound sidekicks. Lance and Shelton were more panicked than David by Josh’s unexpected appearance. They were looking to their leader for guidance. Retreat? Attack?
Lance dropped Rachel’s bag onto the hood of the car, prepping himself to either charge or run away. Josh seized on the young men’s hesitation. “Leave now, while you still can.”
Shelton, too, seemed indecisive. “David?”
The tire iron was still too damn close to Rachel for Josh’s peace of mind and pounding pulse. And Brown was no idiot. He could read Josh’s distraction. He probably sensed that Josh’s first priority would be keeping Rachel safe rather than defending himself.
Josh knew the moment David made his decision. The cocky young man’s lips curled into a smug smile. He pointed the tire iron at Josh.
“Show him who’s in charge here.”
“No!” Rachel lunged at David’s arm, but he whipped the tire iron up in front of him like a defensive shield and backed her against the car. Her protest was drowned out by his shrill laughter.
“Get away from her.” It was Josh’s final warning.
“Now, gentlemen,” David commanded.
Like a skewed version of a Dr. Seuss book, Jock One and Jock Two—Lance and Shelton—obeyed their master and attacked like two well-trained guard dogs. Josh had to get his licks in first. Dazed and drunk or not, these two were almost as tall as he was, and at least as stocky. He had to scare them off while he could, before he lost the advantage of clearheaded sobriety to the fatigue that would weaken him in a drag-’em-out fight.
But La
nce and Shelton were thinking power instead of endurance. Josh took a step toward Lance, who struck first. Deflecting one meaty fist with his forearm, Josh bent at the waist. With his shoulder he caught the younger man square in the gut and rammed him hard against the front fender of the car.
Shelton was on him next, throwing his considerable weight onto Josh’s shoulders. The propelling force of two men on top of him bent Lance over backward. Jock One conked his head on the windshield and swore. Dazed, he blinked and shook his head, out of the game until the world came back into focus.
Jock Two still had fight in him, though. With the wrenching force of a clothesline tackle, Shelton flung his arm around Josh’s throat.
Josh had quick enough reflexes to duck his chin to his chest and protect his Adam’s apple from a crippling blow. But Shelton’s extra weight pulled him off balance. He stumbled back a couple of steps, heading for the ground and certain vulnerability if the two attackers could get on top of him.
“Stay out of this!” David’s warning drew Josh’s attention as he landed hard on top of Shelton. Rachel had picked up the loose hubcap to use as a weapon. But with the reverberation of two cymbals clashing, David smacked it out of her hands. The dented metal disk hit the snowy pavement and skidded out of sight.
The brief diversion gave Shelton the opportunity to land a solid punch against Josh’s kidneys. Swearing at the bruising pain, Josh refocused his attention and retaliated.
With his hand squeezed into a rock-hard fist that turned his muscular forearm into a battering ram, he jabbed back with his elbow. The first blow hit Shelton’s diaphragm, pushing out his breath on a stifled grunt. The second loosened his grip on Josh’s throat. The third connected with a rib. Shelton released him and tried to scoot away across the slippery asphalt. In milliseconds, Josh was on his knees above him. He spun around and planted his fist in Shelton’s jaw, putting the big kid out of commission.
Josh spared a glance for Rachel as he climbed to his feet. David squared off against him, shoving the professor aside. But her green eyes widened and darted to the right, warning Josh of the threat advancing behind him.
